Pages

Saturday, 28 April 2018

At one time, there was an Underground Railway that brought slaves from the deep south to different parts of the northern USA as well as Canada, including my home province of New Brunswick.Imagine if you can that your son was owned by another person and could be bought and sold at anytime. A terrible thought.I finished this short story a few weeks ago but I'm not sure if it's complete. I would like to add it to a forthcoming collection of short stories called "Boxes of Memories". I need you to let me know what might be missing. Please leave me a comment below. (copyright is held by the author)

May, 13,
1860

The whip snaps
as it completes its arc, slashing a red bloody groove on the pale, delicate
skin of the thirteen year old girl.Her upper
torso is naked, the blouse torn from her thin frame. Immature breasts are
scrapping against the rough bark of the hemlock tree her arms and hands are
bound to as she wails and shimmers from the deadly lash. Her tormented shrieks
echo through the forest. Besides the dappled sun streaming through the leaves and
boughs, the only other witnesses to the punishment is the two black slaves,
mother and son, tied at the base of a hardwood tree close by, near
enough that the horror in their eyes can be clearly seen.

The man
holding the whip is a bounty hunter. Rough skinned, cold eyes and a scarred
face make him as ugly as the tightly wound leather strap he wields. Hired by
the richest plantation owner in South Carolina to find his runaways, Cletus
Sawyer, intends to teach the young lady that helped them a lesson. Even though
she’s white like him, he doesn’t care. When he presents his prisoners, there’s
an extra forty dollars from the cotton baron for dissuading future intervention
by the freedom lovers of Southern New Brunswick, where the Underground Railroad
he followed has lead him. From the route they took, he knew they’d be here,
he’s found others crossing over the St. Croix River before.

Raising the
whip to strike again, his callous heart won’t listen to the pleas from the
girl, the begging to stop. His arm is poised high in the air, the leather
braids flowing from the handle are stretched taut as they reach their apogee.
Seconds before the fall of the whip completes its trajectory, a loud blast
shatters the air. A bullet tears through the back of Sawyer’s head exiting
through the left eye.The bounty hunter
is dead before his foul body topples to the forest floor.

Three months earlier.

Melody is of
the Kota Tribe of Gabon, Africa. Before she was abducted by slavers, her name
was Akara. The man that purchased her,
Cyrus B. Sheppard, when examining her at the slave market of Charleston, both
she and her son in shackles, commented to his overseer that this one looked too
proud, too old, guessing her to be sixteen, to be tamed. Too much work. His
advisor suggested to not fret over her jutted chin and hateful glare, he would handle
that but instead, to study the young woman’s hips, pendulous breasts, already a
mother so young. She would have many strong babies. Both regarded her as if she
were an animal, selected for stock regeneration. Deeming his investment would
be returned many times over, he purchased her and her child. It was not to be. (photo credit -snipview.com)

Six months
of infertility was punished by grueling field work in addition to her role of child
bearing. She had been serviced by the strongest bucks on the plantation. She
resisted at first, yelling and kicking. Only when the roughest, smelliest white
ranch hands were made to hold her, their presence more objectionable than there
purpose, did she become compliant. The couplings were timed to her monthly
administrations by the Negro midwife, to no avail. In the eyes of many of her suitors
she saw lust, some of them expressed pity, only a few said forgive me. The
punishment for the twelfth monthly flow of blood was the sale of her son.

The overseer,
a heavy browed, mean individual named Dilly Perkins, is having them transported
to the Fletcher plantation ten miles southeast, she for breeding and the boy for
transfer of ownership, accompanied by two white men of Sheppard’s employ, both
ruffians. A mud stained field wagon drawn by two sturdy draft horses is used. Melody
and Moses are chained in the back, the men sitting up front. Perkins reminds
them of the load they need to pick up after.

“Sam, Joey
and Billy will follow y’all shortly and meet you at Castlemoor’s General Store.
They’ll be staying in town for the night, Sheppard givin’ them a few days off
but they’ll give ya hand with the load of feed we ordered. Now get outta here.”

The early
afternoon sun is blistering, like a hot bellied stove roaring with dry wood. The
tree line they enter is the only wooded area on their route. It extends
easterly for almost a mile before cotton fields dominate the view on both sides
once more. Around a long bend in the road, one side has a slight rise where the
trees are much taller and their shadows partially cover the dirt road. The
driver pulls to the left to take advantage of the shade. It’s a movement the two
men hiding behind a large boulder a hundred feet ahead of them were planning
for. They’re expecting them. There is no one around as far as can be seen on
the open road. They believe no one will hear the gun shots.

The man
driving the wagon is a drifter, young, gnarly beard and unkempt hair. The only
clean and polished item on his body is the Colt single action firearm in his
holster. He’s a deadly shot with it if he has time to draw. A slug enters his
chest through the side and pulverizes his heart. His companion reeks of hard
liquor and wears a sweat stained hat. The second shot takes him just above the
left ear and the lid spins skyward. The horses panic and bolt. The momentum
throws the two dead men backwards with one of them landing directly on top of
Melody. She screams.

“Whoa,
whoa!” someone shouts out. The horses obey the firm command and jerk the large
wagon to a stop. The momentum shifts the dead body and Melody pushes it off.
Blood from his wound smears her cotton smock. Moses is under the front seat
crunched against the corner. His bottom lips quivers and fright owns his eyes.
They both look up from their strained position, wrists in locks, chained
loosely to the sideboard. A man glares down in the wagon, the sun shines in her
eyes and only the shape of his head and wild hair is visible. When he moves it
in front of the sun his eyes are sad but his voice hopeful, his skin is white.

“Are you
okay Ma’am?”

Melody has
never been called Ma’am. She wonders who he is talking to casting her eyes
about. Moses stares at the tall person, quieted by the events, knowing not to
complain, not to cry, someone will hurt him.

“No, you
Maam,” he says pointing at her, “are you alright?

She shakes
her head, unsure how to react.

The man
steps back while she sits up, pulling Moses to her side, dragging his chain
closer. Pulling himself up on the ladder on the front right, he can see the shackles
that redden the skin around her wrists and those of the boy. Another man
approaches the wagon. His skin is black, black as raven’s feathers. Climbing up
into the driver’s seat, he pushes the other body aside. Kneels over the back to
stare down at the sorriest sight he never gets used to. Their eyes lock in some
form of instant communication, the sameness of their skin bonds them
immediately. Hope overcomes despair. He dispels any fears with a friendly nod. The
white man points at the dead bodies lying in the wagon.

“Those scum
must have the keys to the shackles Adisa, dig through their pockets and get
these poor folk loose.”

“Will do Mistuh
Jones. We needs to get this wagon gone too Mistuh Jones?”

“We will
Adisa. We’ll get these folks out first.”

Melody is
not sure of what is happening. With a racing heart, anticipation shines in her
eyes but she’s known too much disappointment to cling to anything hopeful. She
watches the black man straddle the sideboard and begin to rifle the pockets of
the dead men at her feet. He smiles at her when he tells her she’ll soon be
free.

“Free?” she
asks. The word seems foreign.

“Yeah, we
goin’ to get ya free ma’am but yous goin’ to have ta hurry.”

Finding a
skeleton key in the pants pocket of the bearded man, he steps over the body and
unlocks the restraints from Moses first, then Melody.

“What’s your
name, missy?”

She speaks
unsure and leery.

“Mine’s
Melody and this here’s Moses.”

“Well ain’t
he a handsome young man. Mine’s Adisa and that genl’man’s Mistuh Jones. But no
time to get friendly, we need to move now missy.”

Jones urges Adisa
to get the wagon moving. He will abandon it and the bodies in an empty field
where it will go unnoticed for many days.Jones, Melody and Moses are heading towards the woods when around the
bend come horses being ridden hard, startling them into a brisker run. The
three horsemen heard the shots and figured there was trouble. Seeing the black
woman and boy with a white man running towards the woods and the fleeing wagon,
they know something is wrong. When the trio enters the woods, a gunshot
ricochets off a boulder grazing Jones in the lower leg. He falls to the ground,
rolls towards the boulder and yells to Melody.

“Go on, get
to the end of the path, cross the river, it’s not deep and head across the
valley towards a small thicket of trees near a dirt road and there will be
someone there to get you to safety. Hurry! I’ll hold these men off.”

Melody
grasps her son’s hand and runs. Jones starts to return fire. He checks to see
the cloud of dust that Adisa makes with the fleeing wagon and watches one of
the men veer off to pursue him. The other two have dismounted and are in a
crevice at the edge of the road. Taking careful aim, Jones takes one out with a
bullet to the temple. The other man is hunkered down cowardly where Jones can’t
see him. A shot rings out from up the road and the third rider is thrown from
his horse. Jones grins, knowing Adisa is deadly with a rifle even when firing
from a moving wagon. The distraction gives the man in the ditch a brief moment
to run to his horse. Jones fires after the weaving target but his shots are
wide and the man is able to mount the moving horse to gallop back the way he
came. Jones stands and limps deeper in the path where his horse is tethered.
Both he and Adisa rode here from the field where they left Adisa’s horse so he
could return to Jones’ farm. He has no time to worry about the escaped slaves.

***

The dogs
following her scent, the men bearing guns on their horses, can be heard across
the valley. The woman and child they are hunting hasten through tall grasses
towards a wooded grove where her transport awaits. At least in her highest hope
it awaits. Her heart pounds in her chest like the clomping of the heavy hooves
that pursue her. She can feel the beating of a smaller heart, frightened,
pulsing through her clenched hand as she tows her young son behind her. She
thinks only of him who has been sold to another cotton farmer, a simple
exchange of a life of servitude for one hundred dollars. She hates them. Fear and loathing drive her
on.

It will take
thirty-two days of hiding and running until they arrive in New Brunswick. When
the bounty hunter shows up, Melody and Moses will have been free for sixty
days.

***

Cletus
Sawyer lies dead between the captives. Surprise is etched forever on his face,
except in the hole where the left eye was, other than that he looks just as
mean. The young girl moans softly, red welts on her flaxen skin are obscene.
Melody and Moses tremble in their bonds, unable to see where the shot came
from. A soft noise of crunching leaves betray someone’s approach. The smell of
gunpowder slips by more casually. A man shadows them, stopping several feet away.A wide hat, dark clothing, dark skin
hides his identity. It’s only when he speaks does Melody gasp.

“I knowed if
I looked hard enough I’d find ya Melody. You won’t have ta look over yur
shoulder no more. Adisa will take care of ya.”

The End

I would be forever grateful if you left a comment telling me what you think of the story. Don't be shy!

Saturday, 21 April 2018

The
Scribbler is running a series of creative people that happen to be partners
with other creative people. The second part of this series includes two former
guests to the Scribbler, visual artist Nicole Tremblay and author Zev Bagel. They are back as a team
for a 4Q Interview.

**Of special note, Moncton's famous Frye festival begins this week and as a kickoff, Zev will be reading from his work, along with other authors at the Shediac Frye Fringe Fest.

4Q: First
question is for you Nicole. Since your
previous visit to the Scribbler, you have completed many beautiful paintings.
Which one is your favorite and why? Please share what inspired the painting.

NT:Well…..isn’t
this a bit like asking one…and which one is your favourite child?
HAHAHA! I would say that there is always a certain part of a painting that
brings it together and gives me the big YES! Some paintings are much
quicker than others giving that ‘yes feeling’. I do not really plan a
painting… I might have a colour in mind and I start building up the background
– I love colour and texture. I cover the surface with paint,
collage, stencils until it takes a form/shape I can feel and then go on…it can
sometimes be a rather long process….and then it happens. I listen to
music while I paint. Chris Rea is probably my favourite singer/musician and will
often inspire the title of the piece I’m working on.

ZB: Most of
my books are based on real events or personal experiences. Secrets is pure fiction. Well, almost.I was a life-coach for thirty years, and
would never divulge the secrets people told me. The idea for this book came
when I thought “What if a psychopath became a life-coach?” Imagine what such a
person could do with the secrets he heard. So here’s a man who arrives in New
Brunswick, decides to become a life-coach and takes on clients, opening the way
to fraud, blackmail and murder. Getting into the mind of such a character was
frighteningly easy! It must have helped that an undercurrent of humour pervades
the mayhem.

4Q: You have
an exposition at present Nicole at Café C’est La Vie in Moncton, NB in which
many of your paintings are on display until mid April. Where else can your
paintings be viewed and/or purchased?

NT: The
exhibit at Café C’est la vie will come down on Monday April 30th. Zev and I will be at the Shediac Market in
the Park every Sunday from June 3 to September 30 (9am-2pm) rain or shine.Friday evenings (6-10pm) July and August
(check newspapers for dates) you can find us at the Allée des Artistes off Main
Street in Shediac.We will have books,
paintings, poems and cards.Viewings
can also be arranged by appointments (506) 351-0645.

4Q: Your
latest novel which you discussed above was published by Museitup Publishers and
in the last section of the book, it tells us that there are 5 more novels
waiting for publication. Care to tell us about any of them, or perhaps all of
them.

ZB: The
titles awaiting publication by MuseItUp are: The Last Jew in Hania, Bender’s
Box, State of Flux and Lost. I have just completed my latest,
which is called Solitary. This last
one is about a Canadian who is in solitary confinement in Iran’s notorious Evin
prison. He befriends an Iranian prisoner by communicating through a hole in the
wall. Some of the story is based on the family history told to me by an
Iranian-Canadian friend. This was the hardest book for me to write, since I had
to get into the head of someone enduring forced confinement willing himself to
survive. The relationship between the two prisoners is what lifts the story.

4Q: We are
going to cheat this week and slip in a fifth question.
What’s in the immediate future for both of you?

NT:Having fun, working on my next art projects,
going to workshops, travelling.

ZB: The
immediate future is now, which is where I like to be. Now is good. I’m between
novels right now, and enjoy writing poems to Nicole’s paintings. We have some
travel plans, and will be celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary
while we’re away. As for the next book – inspiration awaits.

Thank you
both for sharing your thoughts. I'm very happy to say that I own two of Nicole's paintings and enjoy them daily. It is my hope to add more to my collection. I have also collected Zev's novels and am looking forward to the coming stories.

Saturday, 14 April 2018

There is a
saying, “Tuscany, like a fine wine, has been some time in the making…

One of the special things about Tuscany is that
our guest calls the region home. Meet Connie Shipley and enjoy her 4Q
Interview.

Hi, and thanks
for having me on your blog. Now what can I say about myself? I was born in
Belgium, although my parents were British. Well actually dad was, but mom was
Belgian and became British through marriage. I spent my childhood there and
visited the UK at least once a year. Our house was full of books, history,
military stuff, as my dad had been in the military and had fought during WW2.
He passed the love of books onto me and he used to make up funny stories, so I
guess I got the fantasy side from him. I
studied foreign languages, physiotherapy, and osteopathy. Soon after my
studies, I traveled to the Middle East for work. I was fortunate to have met interesting people
and I had the privilege of attending embassy socials, as well as observing
military training which was quite exciting. I’ve done quite a bit of traveling for work
and for pleasure, so most countries and locations I write about, I have visited
in the past.

Today I’m
married and living in Tuscany, with my Italian husband and three dogs. I’m an
avid researcher, always out on the look for new ideas. I don’t quite remember
why I started writing, but it was two years ago, with my first novel
MoonHuntress. I created a series, so now there are three completed books. I
love complex characters and the psychology that surrounds them. I always try to
show the reader how my characters really are, what they think, how they live,
feel, their emotions. I also love fashion, so there’s the feminine side to my
books as well. I hope you enjoy the series.

4Q: You have
a successful series named “MoonHuntress,”
which is also the name of the first novel in the series. How did this series
come about? What inspired the stories?

CS: It
started out as a completely different story about a Sisterhood, but there were
far too many characters, so I began to remove them. Then, after talking to some
military friends and doing some research, I began to write the first draft of
MoonHuntress. Now, as I said before I’ve lived and worked in the Middle East,
so many characters are based on real people but of course the entire story is
invented. I never really know what’s going to happen with the characters, so I
just write as I go. And when I arrived at the end of the first book, I thought,
why not continue, and write a series. So, I went back to the story-board,
talked to military friends with their specific knowledge on tactics, weapons,
strategy, and went from there. There’s also a lot of research in my books,
which I love doing. If you like action, adventure,
and a dash of romance, this is the series!

4Q: In the
second book of this series, SoulCatcher, your heroine is Bina Knopfler. Tell us
about her.

CS: Bina
Knopfler is already introduced and the main character in the first book of the
series. She’s the protagonist. She’s a Mossad agent. She’s beautiful, clever,
and very strong minded and determined (a bit like me, yes). But she also has
her weak side, she isn’t perfect, and she makes mistakes. Life hasn’t been easy
on her, and she pretty much has been a loner. But through the story, she needs
to face the truth, and it’s a hard truth.

Then of
course there’s romance, but you’ll have to read the books, I’m not giving out
any spoilers, ha!

4Q: Pleased
share a childhood anecdote or favorite memory.

CS: My
favorite memory is my childhood at the beach. I think I had the best childhood
ever. We used to live in a beach town. So, every summer was great fun going to
the beach with my cousins. Playing in the sand, digging holes, swimming in the
sea. My cousin and I used to have two bathing suits, one dry one, and one to go
swimming, we used to change them every ten minutes, making our mums go crazy.
It was fun.

4Q: There
are three books in the series with the third called The Golden Key and all
sound intriguing. Two have also been translated into Italian. What’s next for
Connie Shipley?

CS: Well I’m
working together with my American editor on an upcoming book, a paranormal
thriller.I’m very excited about this
project. It’s completely different, very intriguing and hope the readers will
love it as we explore a wing of the esoteric world. Plus, in the meantime I’m
working with my Italian editor on the translation of the Golden Key. It’s a lot
of work and it’s keeping me quite busy.

Once I’m
finished with the thriller, I’m going to work on the final book of the
MoonHuntress series. So watch out!!

Thank you,
Connie, for sharing your thoughts and writing and for being our guest this
week.

For those
that are interested in discovering more about Connie and her novels, use these
links.

Saturday, 7 April 2018

The
Scribbler is most fortunate to have Balroop Singh as our guest this week,
agreeing to a 4Q Interview. She lives in California with her family and is
originally from India.

Balroop Singh, a
doting grandma and a dedicated wife, a former high school teacher and an
educationalist always had a passion for writing. She is a poet, a
creative non-fiction writer and a relaxed blogger. She writes about people,
emotions and relationships. A self-published author, she has written five
books.She always
had a passion for poetry which evoked images before her eyes and carried her
far beyond the horizon. She could see the visions of her own poetry while
teaching the poems. Her dreams saw the light of the day when she published her
first book ‘Sublime Shadows Of Life.’

Balroop Singh has
always lived through her heart. She is a great nature lover; she loves to watch
birds flying home. The sunsets allure her with their varied hues that they lend
to the sky. She can spend endless hours listening to the rustling of leaves and
the sound of waterfalls. The moonlight streaming through her garden, the
flowers, the meadows and the butterflies cast a spell on her.

Realism and fantasy blend perfectly in her poetry, which highlights the
fact that happiness is not a destination but a chasm to bury agony, anguish,
grief, distress and move on! No sea of solitude is so deep that it can drown
us. Sometimes aspirations are trampled upon, boulders of exploitation and
discrimination may block our path but those who tread on undeterred are always
successful.

4Q: You have lately received high praise
from author Deborah Stevens for your book of poetry – Emerging from Shadows.
Please tell us more about this collection and your inspiration.

BS: Poetry is timeless as it carries a profound message, which remains eternally relevant. Poems capture raw emotions most eloquently, sooth our disillusioned minds and leave an everlasting impact on sensitive souls. It is the succinct style of writing through imagery that inspired me to embrace this genre.

Here is an introduction to ‘Emerging From Shadows’:

From
darkness into light, from despair onto the wider ways of hope…life oscillates
between sunshine and shadows.Emerging from shadowsis
a choice, which lies dormant, which can be gently inspired by self-talk. Each
poem in this book banks on the hope of emerging stronger, saner, positive and
resilient. Each poem in this book would talk to you, revealing layers of
enclosed emotions. Each poem would divulge a secret path that could lead you
into the world of poise and serenity.

When
turbulences hit, when shadows of life darken, when they come like unseen
robbers, with muffled exterior, when they threaten to shatter your dreams, it
is better to break free rather than get sucked by the vortex of emotions.

Let one of the reviewers speak for my poetry:

“Forty poems, composed and curated by the author herself, adorn the book. All the poems, though not related to each other, seem harmonious to me as I finished reading. As if, they are pearls of the same string and, together they exude a feeling that resonates with your mind in more than one way.

Balroop’s poems liberate the mind of the reader from darkness to light. Life, for us, is not a bed of roses. It is a roller coaster ride alternating continuously with highs and lows. The carousel of life concocts love, discord, merriment and strife. Balroop made us understand this eternal truth and guides us to rise above mediocrity. Her poems would make you feel stronger from within, would help you ameliorate the pain and suffering life has thrust upon you, would lead you to have that insight towards self-discovery. There lies the magic of her poetry! Portraying the philosophy of life in the poetical form, that is what the poet has done in the book. But, so subtle, so beautiful is her approach, that the reader will never feel encumbered. The language is a delight, exuberant bubbles of words rising softly upwards– leaving behind a sillage to cherish for a long time.”- -Maniparna (read more at
Amazon.com)

An excerpt from my poetry, liked by Cathleen
Townsend, another reviewer:“I can no
longer remain insignificant

4Q: I’ve visited your blog – Emotional
Shadows – (see below for link) and you spoke of teaching, sharing your thoughts
and experiences in your pursuit of happiness. Does writing make you happy? How
so?

BS: Teaching molded me into a patient,
kind and responsible individual and I discovered myself anew when I was placed amongst
youngsters who spoke intrepidly and honestly. I stumbled upon my writing talent
while I was encouraging them to pen down their thoughts. I was bewildered that
I could compose poetry, when challenged to do so. Happiness filtered through
those tireless moments of working together in creative writing workshops.

The elation of
recording our feelings is so liberating! When we write, we can create our own
world of fantasy, we can unlock all the doors, as the keys are in our
possession…isn’t it a wonderful feeling?

Writing calms us and leads us to self-discovery. Words become our best friends, teach us tolerance, control our anger and rein our negative thoughts. They slash those emotional walls down, which ward off our progress towards becoming a better person.

All those hurts, the agony and emotional throttling gets assuaged when
we pour it out. Healing starts the moment we pen down our thoughts. We feel
relieved. We learn to forgive. We rise above human imperfections.

Writing has given me wings. I can fly anytime, anywhere. I often perch on the branches of my favorite trees and can communicate with anyone without any reticence. All those who sit far away, in the comfort of their homes can hear me as I let my voice merge into the clouds that float around, merrily.

4Q:Please share a childhood memory or
anecdote.

BS:Little children like to follow their moms and we were probably too
determined not to be left behind. Our moms thought they could slip by while we
were playing near the pond outside our grandma’s home. We must be too little as
I have heard this story many times but have a faint memory of this incident.

The moment we saw our moms going out, my
cousin Debi suggested we must see where they were going. So we ran after them.
We were told many times to return home but we were made of sterner stuff and
didn’t get deterred by the threats and gestures that we could see. We knew any
punishment at grandma’s home was not possible!

They quickened their pace and thought we
would return when we wouldn’t see them. We didn’t. Our moms returned home in
the afternoon to discover that we were missing and were blamed for being
irresponsible. The whole house was searched. My grandma rushed into neighboring
houses, hoping we must be playing somewhere.

The big news was conveyed to my uncle,
an authoritarian man with haughty demeanor who considered talking to women a
waste of time. He was furious and thundered: “These women can’t even take care
of two kids!” Only grandma could face his wrath and ordered him to send men all
around the village. No success!

Having realized the gravity of the
situation, my uncle took his bike out and told grandma that the kids must have
drowned in the stream. Mumbling some obscenities about the women of the house,
he drove away to request the local authorities to stop the discharge of water
so that the bodies could be retrieved.

No one could have ever seen such a
delight at the face of my uncle as he returned home with us, chatting away to
glory! My grandma ran to the storehouse to carry round blocks of Gur (jaggery)
to be distributed to all those who came to congratulate! Nobody was interested
in our story and who saved us!

Within hours, my uncle announced that we
should go back to our own homes next morning as he had had enough of our
adventures!

4Q: What’s next for Balroop Singh in
writing? Travelling?

BS: My next poetry book ‘Echoes Within’
is almost ready. I am looking for a suitable cover.

Travelling has been my passion though I
have never made any bucket list. When I look back, one memory looms large and
that is the wish to visit Switzerland. Though it had faded away as I grew up, it
is returning now with passionate reminders.

Thank you Balroop for taking the time to
answer our questions. For you readers, you can learn more about the talented
author here:

Search This Blog

Interesting?

Somewhere in New Brunswick. Photo by France Duguay.

Allan Hudson

About Me

I started writing later in life, inspired by one of my favorite authors, Bryce Courtenay, who began his writing career in his mid-fifties. It has been one of my most rewarding pastimes. I’ve been an avid reader all my life. It started with Dick & Jane – a primary reader my mother brought home from her work – she was a school teacher and taught me to read at an early age.

World Wonders.

Followers

Good news!

Total Pageviews

5 Star review for Shattered Figurine

The opening chapter presents the detective, Jo Naylor, with a very important question. One she didn’t really want to answer but knows she must.

The next chapter, one year later, hits you square in the face with full on complicated and violent action as we discover what this story is all about.

Shattered Figurines is a surprisingly unusual detective story in that it doesn’t follow the usual plotline for this genre and the characters aren’t run of the mill either. The author has captured a very real element in both the story and the characters and I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.

I love a good detective mystery story and Shattered Figurines is one of the best I have read this year. I shall be first in the queue when the author writes another one in this series.

Shattered Figurine - a novella - Available Now!

Shattered Figurine. She sold it at a yard sale four years ago, when she was thirty-seven, and she remembers who bought it. She hadn’t given it a thought since then. In her mind, there had been no reason to. The message this morning changed that. She can’t ignore the possibility, no matter how horrific it seems. She prays silently that she be proven wrong" Click on the photo to read a brief excerpt. Thank you for your support.

Shipping your copy of Shattered Figurine.

Please note that you do not have to have a PayPal account to purchase a copy, you will be able to use your credit card. Once notification is received, please allow up to 24 hours for your copy to be shipped. Thank you.

Review of Wall of War

Dark Side of a Promise

Drake Alexander Adventure - Book 1. I'm pleased to announce the first two novels in the Drake Alexander Adventures are now available as an eBook at the following outlets. Kobo, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Baker & Taylor, Playster, Book2read, Bibliotheca, Overdrive, Tolino, Scribd, 24 Symbols & Amazon. Soon to be available at other booksellers.

Buy it Here

Wall of War and Dark Side of a Promise is available at Amazon.com, Amazon.ca, Cover to Cover in Riverview, Cocagne Variety in Cocagne and from the author.

The Douglas Kyle Memorial Award for Fiction

My story - The Ship Breakers - received Honorable Mention in the Douglas Kyle Memorial awards for New Brunswick Writers Federation's short story category. Published in 2018 in A Box of Memories, a collection of delightful and entertaining short stories.